


the neurosis of poetry lunedream

by zero



Series: The Rude Awakening of Poetry Lunedream [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Realms Royale, Spiderville Stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 18:30:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11408094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zero/pseuds/zero
Summary: lets meet poetry lunedream and learn about her world





	the neurosis of poetry lunedream

**Author's Note:**

> original work about an oc of mine. i have a lot of them. maybe ill write more about them if people develop an interest. i hope you like it.

THE MARSH 1

poetry goes down to the marshes and gathers rare herbs to make bouquets for her friends. she does this without knowing her friends favorite flowers. she gives them flowers she herself likes and loves because she knows what she likes. she gathers purple and red herbs with tufts like honeysuckle and with stringy stems. she mixes them into potions and tea. in the marshes derelicts an old factory. poetry makes strange brews using recipes she has found for her friends. she is not experienced at potion making and she does not know that ages ago witches used to come to this place to conduct their midnight mass.

poetry: i thought youd like it! i call it "bog cola". it seems sweet and with a sumptuous flavor  
miro: its good. thanks for this.

poetry likes to listen to the lapping of the waters and the river on the marsh shore. sometimes she experiences trepidation at how murky the mud on the side of the shore has become. who knows how sanitary it is, down there. the city parks department has verified that its a safe space to spend an evening, but poetry is not so sure.

"i think these marsh herbs need to be washed thoroughly before theyre used in potions" -poetry lunedream

sometimes shadowy silhouettes can be seen in the dark awnings of the factories and munitions shelters, standing tall like big gutted fishes in the bog. they deal their business, discuss their tradings and depart. poetry is unconcerned with these shadowy figures.

rushing of cattails in the river wind. poetrys damp sleeves and humming softly as she gathers cat tails and reeds for a strange, noxious stew. throwing a line in the river and thinking about the desert. wasnt it nice to think about the desert when in a damp, muggy environment like the bog? spending time lying on her back looking up at the moon and bright cloudy sky, lit by lots of stars and starlight. thinking of the river and the fish swimming in it, feeling tugs on her cast iron pole. feeling that mugginess get real down into her armpits, her dick, soft cold and small. yanking up snappers, cod, huskbacks from the bottom of the river and putting them in the cooler to stay cold. salty dank smell from the bottom of the river. feeling her shoulders ache as shed lie on her side, all alone by the river. nobody around for miles, other than shadows of course.

it had been a long time since she had felt comfortable in the city. she lit up another cigarette and scratched the side of her head hair damply falling.

she closed her eyes.

inhaling...

exhaling...

like giving your thoughts time to load as you wait for the mist to settle in your mind, in the world. cold sweat pooling on her back and the back of her neck as she thinks of miro and how miro and her used to come down here on picnics. those days, she thinks, are over or at least very definitely on hold. those days are long gone...

"smoke" she thinks to herself "reminds me of incense."

"incense... burning wood, and trees on fire."

on the far side of the river the brack runs thick and there are trees and huge pipes stretching for miles. people can swim in the water near there, but it might not be healthy... if you follow the river bank upstream you come to a huge reservoir, where poetry and her friend echa used to skate. now of days there are only stray lonely skaters there and the clown girls with their clay pigeons, painted faces, who drive beat up old cars down to shoot at tin cans with rifles.

"im going to make a fishy soup... i wonder if anyone will even want any anymore."

it has already been written elsewhere that poetry lunedream gets her hormones from derelict shipments in the old factory. most other girls just go to cvs or something, but poetry has to do things the uh, hard way. there are all kinds of huge cases of different drugs and pills up in that factory, seemingly left there and zoned off by the hazmat crew, who went on strike a long time ago and seem to have deserted the place. so what she does is, she strolls up with a badtz maru lunchbox, and scoops up the old leftover pills into it, and she does this once at the start of each month, counting them out like this, you see. you could probably make crystal meth out of all the pills left up for grabs at that place, but they mostly go undisturbed. poetry doesnt even think about it.

poetry: i wonder where those pipes lead, some times, and if i followed them, if i could get out of this town  
miro: i mean, if you leave town, youll get out of town, right?  
poetry: i know, but i mean, really leave. like in a mental sense. maybe im just being dumb though  
miro: you mostly are?

her friends would say hurtful things like that a lot.

poetry: i dont really know if they know that what they say hurts me so much, but every single time it does  
therapist: you should tell your friends how you feel when they say such things to you, or you should try and find new friends!  
poetry: (everyone always says the same thing when i tell them that)

POETRYS APARTMENT

poetry wears a mac tonight shirt around and she has maybe 9 or 10 of them in her wardrobe. she has little figures of ponies and keroppi and badtz maru and pikachu on her shelf. she collected a zoo of small, strange characters. sometimes she makes them herself out of clay.

poetry: heres some clay! i want you to make what you think of when you think of me  
echa: *sculpting furiously*  
miro: whats this?  
poetry: its clay. see, i thought you could make something that makes you think of me, and i could put it on my shelf  
miro: i dunno if youd like what i think of...  
poetry: like what?  
echa: *finishes sculpting, and its a horrible monster*  
poetry: what is that  
miro: thats what i was thinking. good eye, echa. i guess ill just make a dog, then.  
poetry: THATS what i make you think of???  
echa: *struggles to suppress laughter*  
miro: shes just being honest

poetrys sink is full of dishes and garbage that wouldnt fit in the trash can. the place smells terrible because she can never remember to clean herself or do laundry and spends a lot of her time down at the bog. roaches dance in the candlelight. sometimes poetry sitting in the gloom of her room makes up little stories in her head about the nature and origin of the roaches, roach society, roach romance, roach history, roach civilization. the moon can be faintly seen through the windows. sometimes she goes up on the roof and reads. 

her apartment is on the 12th story of a 12 story building. there is an eerie elevator and narrow corridors. the rooftop houses a small terraced garden and pool, as well as smoking balcony overlooking the doomed city of spiderville, the tangled walls of the walled city, and through a canopy of awnings, ceilings and wires, the dark desert. poetrys space is cramped. sometimes she dreams of this place on the top of her building. sometimes workmen work on it and other times it seems as if a foul wind sweeps over it in the dead of night leaving it completely changed the next morning. every third story up there are vending machines, and in the lobby, so the ground floor, 3rd, 6th, 9th, 12th, and rooftop all have vending machines. 

the rooftop is technically the 13th story. 

this place is very old and sometimes doors appear or disappear. there are also mysterious doors in the basement and poetry swears she hears groans coming from behind those doors or feels sinister presences there late at night, on her way up from rpg night with dolphin and eagle, sneaking in through the basement door, where the homeless sometimes seek shelter, sleeping hard worn eyes against metal and stone.

poetrys dreams extend to the clouds above her building, the apartments of friends on different floors, some of whom she has come to know intimately during her long-reaching time at this place. her dreams inhabit the mouse holes, the elevator shafts, the convenience stores down the block, all of which form a network of modes, moods, ideas, dialects, like an entire continent of civilizations lived on a lone bathroom tile.

her dreams inhabit the desert, the food trucks, the marsh, the rocks in the desert, the yawning valleys, the ihop, the therapists office, and the video games she sometimes plays on handheld, or at eagles place.

her dreams also inhabit distant galaxies and places near and far. her dreams inhabit the nightmares of her past, the warren of the city, the outlying towns and suburbs, especially hornhill hall, and even the black mountains.

its really a labyrinth of memories she inhabits, and tonight she gets home really late from gathering herbs and fish by the river. sometimes when shes out really, really later, she sees strange old men with their lamps by the riverside, old men who live and breathe with the river, old men who seem like they are river people, who were born under water, who only live on land in the summer months before retreating underwater in the winter or fleeing into the hills like bigfoot, torn men, jagged men, strange men indeed who harvest fish and say little in their harvest. shes shared sandwiches with these old men and they look at her strangely, a young, powerful witchy thing like herself and twice as lesbian as she is witchy. 

these are men of few words, you see, and they fear witches.

"fire herb flesh and fish  
im boiling and brewing a nice dish  
mossy dizzy windy wave  
my love in frost she met her grave"


End file.
